I've just returned from Copenhagen, where I indulged my love all things Danish: furniture, design, and the hygge culture. There’s so much about the Scandinavian vibe that we as American travelers can take home. For starters, the Danes are by and large a humble population. In fact, it is considered extremely rude to stand out from the crowd by bragging or being showy. Everywhere I went, I experienced a sense of community—people let others pass first, bus riders pick up trash after themselves, and all-around, everyone seems to have a sense of hygge.

Maybe it’s because I’m slightly fatigued by the outbreak of Gordon Ramsey fever here in NYC, or maybe it’s because my husband took me to London to celebrate the fact that I am now a year older. Whatever the impetus, I am suddenly finding inspiration in all things with patina, character, and moreover, age. On this recent trip, we eschewed the new and shiny in search of ye goode olde services and products with the distinction being awarded royal warrants--even if we are just hoi polloi.

Heidi Ewing has produced and directed documentaries for The Discovery Channel, Britain's Channel 4, the BBC, A&E Network and Arte. Previously, Heidi produced and co-directed a one-hour film for the Discovery Channel on the ancient origins of tribal and religious body modification, a documentary shot on location in Sri Lanka and Ethiopia.

More recently, Heidi and her Loki Films partner Rachel Grady were aboard an early morning United flight from NYC to Santa Barbara when the captain announced that their documentary film Jesus Camp was nominated for this year's Academy Awards. The entire plane went crazy with applause. I caught up with Heidi in between Oscar-nominee lunches and meetings to glean her perspective on seeing the world through the eyes of a filmmaker.

I staunchly believe that smoking is a vile, wretched act. Raised in L.A., I was aghast when I moved to NYC and spied spandexed crowds huddled outside of gyms, puffing in between Pilates and mat classes. I’ve since abandoned my SoCal sanctimony, preferring to make like a New Yorker when I travel internationally. My When in Rome... ethos gives me license to smoke when I’m off gallivanting in places where cigarettes are as fundamental as bread and coffee. It’s a sacrifice I "selflessly" make for cultural immersion, which is why I am so confounded by France’s ban on smoking in public places, which was announced this week. Quell horror!

As if it wasn’t bad enough that subway delays made me late for work this morning, en route, I got BlackBerry’d that British Airways’ cabin crew have backed a strike plan to ground service over the dates when I’m scheduled to go to London and Copenhagen next week. I know the world doesn’t revolve around me, but come on, but it’s my birthday!

As you can imagine, I’ve been busy dealing with this, so I haven’t had time to dig into the specifics of why the union is striking (something about sick leave and pay), and I haven’t had a minute to formulate an opinion. What I can tell you is that I have an eight o’clock reservation at Wilton’s next Tuesday night, and I’ll be damned if I have to miss it.

We Are Marshall has nothing on the real-life comeback story that’s unfolding in the wake of the New Orleans Saints’ playoff win over the Eagles. Last weekend’s game had me on the edge of my couch, swearing like a sailor, desperate for a win for my adopted city. No place needed it more.

When I was a child, I was lucky enough to have neighbors who were born and bred in New Orleans. In my hometown of Brentwood, L.A.--with its stately homes and well-manicured denizens--Auntie Gayle and Unkie Ralph's zany ways were a departure from the norm. In short, they were more fun than anyone I had ever met. For Christmas, they wrapped their front door in gleaming, metallic paper with a giant bow like an oversized present and tangled themselves in battery-operated tree lights and bulb ornaments for my parents' Christmas Eve parties. When my brother and I watched scary movies at their house, they would jump up from behind the couch to incite even louder screams from us kids.

From an early age, I saw them as the embodiment of New Orleans, a bewitching place where music courses through the city's veins, where you dare not utter the word "voodoo," lest wandering ears "put da curse on you," and where the convivial spirit of Mardi Gras abounds all 365 days of the year.

There are a handful of constants I employ in all of my travels--everything else, I leave to chance: I always visit museums, ride the local transportation, learn to say “hello,” “please,” and “thank you” in the official language, and I always explore the markets. According to my husband, who has been dragged to countless farmstands, grocery stores, and open-air stalls around the world, no kitchen-related item is too mundane to peak my curiosity. (To that I say, “Have you seen the scrub brushes they use in Seoul?”)

Sussing out ingredients unique to far-flung corners of the world is my kind of treasure hunt, one which makes good use of my Kiva convertible duffle bag. This is why I check the mail every single day in January, desperately awaiting the arrival of the Saveur 100, a compendium on insider food finds from the editors of Saveur magazine--kindred spirits in all travel-related ingredient quests.

If I had a nickel for every time a fellow transplanted Californian and I had this conversation...

What good is a Steve Hanson-ish up-market Mexican restaurant in Manhattan--with its artisanal tequila tastings-this and wood-fired mole-that--when all I want is a $3 burrito? Sure, I’ll order one of their burritos for lunch, just to sate the craving for something carby and rectangular that’s topped with guac and sour cream. But nothing satisfies like a burrito from La Taqueria in San Francisco’s Mission.

Without going into detail, let’s just say I see where Danny DeVito was going with his Lincoln bedroom commentary on “The View” a few weeks ago--though I would have preferred to hear it from his buddy George Clooney. There is such a thing a “vacation sex.”*

DeVito’s rant aside, I get what he meant. Being away from home, from work, and from the distractions of our everyday responsibilities makes, ahem...you know, totally different than at home. Indeed, better...and more frequent.

For the last week, I have been completely preoccupied by the heartbreaking story of the Kim family from San Francisco and the tragic discovery that the father died of exposure and hypothermia while seeking help for his family in Oregon.

Last week, CNET senior editor James Kim bravely set out on what his wife Kati described to authorities as an heroic last resort to save her and their two young daughters. After running the car for heat and running out of gas, then burning all four tires, James set out for help on a 10 mile trek through rugged, snowy terrain. Sadly, his path led him in a near circle—his body was recovered only one-half mile from the family car.